Let’s be honest with ourselves. There is a profound and unsettling fascination with the monsters of our stories. We find ourselves glued to the screen, watching the meticulous actions of fictional maniacs and serial killers. From the iconic performance of Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs to the devilish charisma of Mads Mikkelsen in Hannibal, these characters have become cultural cornerstones. But why? What deep, inner desires do these figures express that make them so appealing?

The Thrill of the Forbidden, from a Safe Distance

At its core, art offers us a chance to experience something unique, something far removed from the predictability of our daily lives. An encounter with a predator like Hannibal Lecter is precisely that kind of experience. As we watch his atrocities unfold, we feel a potent mix of adrenaline, fear, and even awe. The crucial element, however, is our safety. The screen acts as a protective barrier, allowing us to witness the unspeakable with the implicit understanding that it cannot touch us. This very safety is the source of our ability to engage with such repulsive characters. Take away that barrier, and the desire to be in the same room with them would vanish instantly.

This dynamic taps into a classic human habit: voyeurism, the urge to peep at what is forbidden. In stories about killers, we are invited to gaze upon a spectacle that society rightly hides away. The director, however, often magnifies the grotesque details, and in doing so, allows us to indulge a primal, almost animalistic, curiosity.

Confronting the Shadow Within

It can be difficult to admit that we might feel a sliver of sympathy for these characters, or that some part of us is drawn to the horror. It's unsettling to think that we have a craving for the dark, a part of us that enjoys following the twisted logic of these fictional minds.

The Austrian psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud theorized that a destructive impulse exists within every person, an impulse he termed Thanatos, or the death drive. He proposed that two primary forces guide us: Eros (the drive for life, love, and creation) and Thanatos (the drive for death, aggression, and destruction). There are moments when we feel this inner pull toward aggression, and the feeling can be terrifying.

Freud's student, Carl Gustav Jung, expanded on this with his concept of the "Shadow." He described the Shadow as an autonomous part of our personality that houses all the thoughts, feelings, and impulses we consciously reject—our urges toward violence, cruelty, immoral ideas, and unacceptable desires. When we immerse ourselves in stories about killers, we may be giving a safe outlet to our own Shadow. These plots can become a form of purification, a way to release the dark energy that accumulates within us without causing any real-world harm.

The Seduction of the Intellectual Monster

Cinema often presents us with incredibly attractive portrayals of these killers. Hannibal Lecter is perhaps the ultimate example: a hereditary aristocrat, a brilliant intellectual with an encyclopedic knowledge of classical culture, a talented musician and painter, a wine connoisseur, and, of course, an exquisite chef. He embodies the image of a classic 19th-century European intellectual, reminiscent of figures like Oscar Wilde.

We are shown a charismatic, intelligent, and undeniably magnetic man. Looking at such a killer, it becomes hard not to feel a certain pull. We must remember, however, that this image of Hannibal is an artificial construct, even if his creator drew inspiration from real-life figures like the murderer Alfredo Ballí Treviño. Real-life killers rarely possess the outstanding characteristics of their fictional counterparts. It is this specific blend of strength, creativity, aestheticism, and magnetism that creates the version of Hannibal we find so compelling. We are fascinated by his uniqueness; he is presented as an artist with a deliberate and unusual worldview that sets him apart from the crowd, even if that worldview is utterly depraved.

When Atrocity Becomes Art

This idea of the killer as an artist is explored brutally in Lars von Trier's film The House That Jack Built, where the main character treats his murders as works of art. However, that film strips away the romanticism, showing the brutal and absurd reality of such a mindset.

The secret to the fictional maniac's appeal is that he operates within his own value system, where ethics are replaced by aesthetics. Ethics are the shared values and rules that govern a society. Aesthetics, on the other hand, represent the individual vision of an author or artist. The killer becomes an "author" who steps over every social taboo for the sake of his "art." Hannibal uses his immense talent to justify violence through beauty, and we, the audience, can find ourselves captivated by the spectacle because it is presented so beautifully.

We live in a world defined by rules and norms. The maniac appears as a hero of the counterculture, embodying a rebellion against the system. He does what is explicitly forbidden, and on a subconscious level, this can evoke a strange sense of sympathy. His method of rebellion, of course, crosses every conceivable line of morality.

Looking in the Mirror

From the dawn of humanity to the 21st century, violence has remained a part of human nature. By engaging with the story of a character like Hannibal Lecter, we are, in a way, freeing ourselves to look at our own secret thoughts. We love these stories because they allow us to look inside ourselves and to gaze into a world of death and darkness from a secure vantage point.

But we must never forget the most important truth: the entire romantic image of Hannibal will dissolve the moment you imagine yourself next to the real thing. Life is far more prosaic, and the artificially created image of the calculating, sexy, intellectual killer evokes sympathy in us only because he remains safely on the other side of the screen.

References

• Freud, Sigmund. Beyond the Pleasure Principle. (1920). This foundational work introduces the concept of the "death drive" (Thanatos) in contrast to the life instinct (Eros). Freud argues that alongside the drive to preserve life, there exists a parallel, unconscious drive toward destruction, aggression, and a return to an inorganic state. This directly supports the article's discussion of an innate human pull toward destructive impulses that finds a safe outlet in horror fiction. (See Chapters IV-VI for the primary development of this theory).
• Jung, Carl Gustav. Aion: Researches into the Phenomenology of the Self. (1951). In this volume, Jung provides a detailed exploration of the "Shadow," the archetype representing the unconscious and often negative aspects of the personality that the conscious ego rejects or represses. The article's point about audiences using violent media to give "free rein to our inner urges" directly relates to Jung's idea that confronting and integrating the Shadow is a necessary part of self-awareness. (Chapter 2, "The Shadow," is particularly relevant).
• Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or Paradoxes of the Heart. (1990). Carroll’s book directly tackles the central question of the article: why are we attracted to and derive pleasure from that which is horrific and repulsive? He argues that the appeal lies not in the suffering or disgust itself, but in the process of discovery and confirmation driven by the narrative's plot. The monster is fascinating because it is an impossible being, and our pleasure comes from the cognitive engagement with the story that reveals its nature. This provides a philosophical framework for the "safe" intellectual and emotional curiosity discussed in the article. (See Part 4, "Explaining the Paradox of Horror").